A Most Reasonable Proposition
by x Ugly Duckling x
Summary: A frivolous social event at the Watsons' causes Sherlock to reconsider his life choices. To solve this dilemma, he'll need a certain pathologist's cooperation - now more than ever. (Sherlolly)
1. Yellow Balloons

**A Most Reasonable Proposition  
** A frivolous social event at the Watsons' causes Sherlock to reconsider his life choices. To solve this dilemma, he'll need a certain pathologist's cooperation - now more than ever.

******************************  
Set in a slightly altered timeline / universe, this story occurs sometime in mid-to-late Season 3 with two primary differences:

1\. Moriarty did not die / pretend to die in the season 2 finale (whatever the case may be, we won't know until Season 4 arrives, will we?). In this universe, he's been imprisoned, though Sherlock is very aware of his potential to escape at any time.

2\. Tom is not / was never in Molly's life. His character simply doesn't exist in this timeline.

No guarantee how frequently the updates will come. But I can guarantee it will be satisfying and (hopefully) in character. Review if you like, but above all, enjoy. :)

 **Chapter 1 – Yellow Balloons**

Sherlock emitted a dry, dejected sigh as Mycroft steered across the Watsons' driveway apron. Soon he'd have to disturb the gift he'd managed to balance perfectly on his lap the entire way. Truth be told, he wasn't keen on disturbing any of his limbs right now. He mentally tabulated all the scenarios he'd be less enthusiastic about than this. It was a very, very short list.

He glanced furtively from left to right. At least a dozen cars lined the quiet street, their owners all packed inside the Watson home, jolly and lively and making fools of themselves. Just as he was about to do.

Mycroft pocketed his keys. "The car is in park now, brother. It's considered safe to get out."

"Physically, yes," muttered Sherlock.

Rolling his eyes, the older Holmes was in no mood for this. Had he reserved an entire afternoon just for Sherlock's insufferable moaning? Hardly. Especially since Sherlock had begged him to come to this, this…

"I have never been to a baby shower before, Sherlock, and yet you don't see _me_ pouting in the Watsons' driveway while they patiently await our arrival. Get up already," he huffed, slamming the car door. "You are the gift bearer, after all."

Oh, how acutely aware Sherlock was of _that_ fact. The box weighed close to twenty pounds. If its heft wasn't enough of a reminder, Mycroft's incessant warnings to keep it stable and steady certainly were. Packing it had been as odd an adventure as choosing its contents. Sherlock recalled their shopping excursion the previous weekend:

" _What exactly does one get an unborn child?" he asked Mycroft over the phone, perplexed._

 _Equally clueless, Mycroft stalled. "What gender is it?"_

" _I don't know. John and Mary haven't elected to divulge that detail."_

" _Why ever not? Isn't that the status quo these days, throwing ridiculous parties to reveal the child's gender?"_

" _I wouldn't know… how is it that_ you _have knowledge of such rituals, brother?" asked Sherlock suspiciously._

 _Mycroft cleared his throat with authority. "Never mind. If a gift is obligatory, then we must choose an item that holds equal appeal for both males and females."_

" _Hmm…" Sherlock contemplated his options. "A convertible sofa bed?"_

" _I'm not certain that meets modern safety standards for infants."_

" _Very well. A junior forensic chemistry kit?"_

" _I can't quite place my finger on it, but I sense our trajectory may be somewhat off."_

" _If you haven't any better ideas, then you'd do well to hold your criticism."_

 _Sighing, Mycroft acquiesced. "To the shopping district, then. I shall arrive for you in half an hour."_

 _The sales staff at the science supply shop had been helpful enough, but also inquisitive. During checkout, the clerk asked for whom the items were intended. Upon learning the future recipient was not yet born, she was taken aback. "Please tell me this isn't the only gift you'll be wrapping?" she pleaded._

 _At her earnest advice, the Holmes brothers crossed the street to an infant & young children's clothing store. Five seconds in that environment surpassed their tolerance levels. They grabbed the first item within reach – a breast pump – and tossed a large bill toward the unsuspecting saleswoman before rushing out._

And so Sherlock's baby shower gift box contained an electric motorized pump, a microscope, and several jars of formaldehyde. In a truly brilliant moment of economic thinking, he surmised that the jars could be reused to store baby food.

Ready or not, the time had come to present the Watsons with this most auspicious – if unique – combination of gifts. He heaved himself out of the passenger seat and followed Mycroft inside, where they were bombarded with a senseless amount of yellow balloons. They were anchored along the entire length of the banister, hung from all corners of the ceiling, and rolled underfoot at the most inopportune times.

Sherlock was on the hunt for a slender kitchen knife to end the yellow tide, when Molly and Mrs. Hudson came upon him.

"Sherlock, there you are!" greeted Molly.

"We were starting to fear you'd been swept up into some great caper this afternoon," Mrs. Hudson teased.

"Yes, well, you know my M.O., always aim for fashionable lateness," he replied, still digging through drawers and cupboards for a serrated edge.

Molly pursed her lips. "I'd say he's kept our hosts waiting long enough, wouldn't you, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Without a doubt. Let's drag him in, shall we?"

Linking their elbows through his, the two women mercilessly overtook Sherlock and led him into the lion's den, where twenty-some faces turned toward him in unison.

"It's about time!" John called out from the far corner of the room. Mycroft, Sherlock noted with envy, had claimed the last inconspicuous spot near the door – leaving Sherlock with nowhere to sit but a lone ottoman in the middle of the crowd.

 _Everyone envisions Hell as being a red inferno_ , he thought while sidestepping legs and oversized presents. _But they're wrong. It's yellow. Pastel yellow._

As the festivities began and Sherlock's eyes glazed over, he retreated to his mind palace, where things were much saner than daisy-chaining safety pins or guessing poor Mary's girth in centimeters. Someone had asked for his estimate on the latter. Without needing to look at Mary for even half a second, he threw out an answer and predictably won.

When at last the games subsided, and Sherlock's stomach was aching from an overabundance of refined sugar snacks, the mountain of gifts was to be razed. Finally. He need only survive this final ceremony to escape. Hopefully Mycroft, who'd dozed off with his chin tucked into his chest, could be woken when it was time to leave. It shouldn't be too long now, judging by each present's surface area and wrapping complexity.

A slow, cold horror set in as he realized each gift was first carefully opened, delicately handled, displayed from various angles to elicit a round of adoring coos, and then dutifully recorded in a notebook for… what purpose?

Growing increasingly restless, he could no longer stand it. "Why does John insist on writing down every single inconsequential item?" he whispered to Molly.

She stared at Sherlock a moment before realizing this question was perfectly legitimate coming from him. "So that he and Mary can recall which items came from whom, and mail out thank-you cards afterward."

"You're kidding."

"No," she whispered sideways, trying to return her attention to the proceedings.

Aghast that John was unable to memorize a mere 47 gifts on his own, Sherlock crossed his arms and tried – with limited success – to hide his disgust. His features relaxed, however, when he recognized the final present in Mary's lap: the Holmes brothers'.

"My goodness, this is heavy!" exclaimed Mary, who handed it over to John.

"What is it, two gallons of baby shampoo?" John grinned. "There isn't a tag. Who's this from?"

Mycroft released a long, gentle snore just then. Clearly Sherlock would have to answer.

"Yours truly," he nodded at John.

John froze halfway through peeling back the wrapping paper, and his grin faltered. Something this heavy… from Sherlock… oh, no…

Mary swallowed anxiously as she watched her husband remove the last pieces of tape. Everyone leaned forward in breathless, morbid anticipation. John's expression upon lifting the box flaps was exactly what it should be, and Mary's soon matched as well.

"Oh..!" she gasped while laughing awkwardly. "This is... I see, yes. How _thoughtful_ of you, Sherlock."

At first, John's face contorted in absolute confusion. It looked like a tangled mess of flexible tubing connected to two air horn canisters. Then, as Mary tried to graciously hold the item up for display, realization dawned on John – along with all the other guests. Some immature snickering drifted through the crowd.

Mary smirked at Sherlock. "We… don't yet have one of these. Thank you."

"There's more," he responded flatly.

"Of course there is," muttered John, whose cheeks had turned from ashen to beet red in under five seconds. _I'm not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that Sherlock's is the last present_ , he thought while diving back in for more surprises. Confusion wracked his brain again as he withdrew six small jars of preservative fluid.

"Do I even want to ask, much less know?" he beseeched his friend, whose straight posture hadn't slouched once in over two hours on that ottoman.

Sherlock tapped his finger impatiently on one knee. "Always rushing to conclusions. Try emptying the _entire_ box before causing a commotion, John."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You're plenty capable of that yourself," John shared a knowing look with Mary before seizing the last item. "A junior forensic chemistry set! By God, Sherlock, you're incorrigible!"

The whole room exploded in laughter. Mary turned the package over and read aloud its many features.

" _Solve any crime scene with this all-inclusive chemistry set, complete with high-caliber microscope, petri dishes, and silicone graduated cylinders – perfect for little hands! Your chemist-in-training can arrive first on the scene to outline the body with chalk, and then perform labs with their very own centrifuge! Also inside: valuable coupon for a discounted subscription to_ Morgue Weekly."

People were doubled over, clutching their sides, tears streaming from their eyes as they howled with laughter. Once Molly caught her breath, she slapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Thank you Sherlock, I think we all needed that!" she wheezed.

Regarding her with level eyes, he waited stiffly until the uproar abated.

"Are we so regressive a nation that we consider educational gifts humorous?" he sternly replied.

"Sherlock, that's not educational. That's _institutional_ ," John countered, earning another round of laughter.

"Besides, there were plenty of educational gifts today. Here's one," Molly offered Sherlock a nearby book. He handled it with open disdain.

"A plush vinyl-bound booklet with five pages of oversized text and poorly illustrated barnyard animals," he assessed. "Its resemblance to an actual book is so remote that it hardly qualifies. Neither does it prepare a child to responsibly handle a volume of hard cover and substantial size, characteristics of most literature worth reading."

There was moaning and rolling of eyes, but thankfully the racket had roused Mycroft from his sleep. The two brothers locked eyes and communicated all they needed to in an instant. Extricating themselves from the swarm of handshakes, hugs, and farewells surrounding the Watsons, the brothers Holmes slipped out the door without anyone noticing.

Back in the sweet, safe confines of Mycroft's vehicle, Sherlock turned the air conditioning on full blast directly at his face. His eyes fluttered closed in utter relief as the car shifted into reverse.

"Never… again…" he panted hoarsely.

Mycroft shrugged. "I found it somewhat less intolerable than expected."

"That's because you slept through half of it!" spat Sherlock, indignant.

"Quite a refreshing nap, I must say."

"There were enough confectionaries served to induce a diabetic coma!"

"Mary seemed in good enough spirits, though tired. John put up a cheerful façade but behind his eyes I saw fear," yawned Mycroft. "Yes, his mind is a cheerful little room painted in yellow daisies, all of them smiling quite severely."

Moaning softly, Sherlock buried his face in long fingers _. John… what were you thinking?_ He could understand John's need to fill the void Sherlock left during his _I faked my death stint_ , but marriage? Really? Must the commitment have gone that far?

John was selfish, that's what he was. Promising himself to someone for life, and then extending that promise to another new, innocent individual… yes, the epitome of selfishness, that John Watson.

Sherlock sighed. This was a no-win situation. He couldn't fault John's actions, yet he couldn't fully respect them either – and he was rather grumpy for having been cornered into this logical loop.

He pinched his eyes shut. "Why, Mycroft? Why does the human race insist on procreating on such inconvenient terms?"

Mycroft frowned. "Inconvenient, in my opinion, would be allowing our species to cease altogether."

"Are you saying–"

"No," Mycroft quickly answered. "No, I am not stating a previously undisclosed desire to regenerate. I am aware, however, that our planet would be in a most perilous state if _all_ others thought and felt as we do."

Opening his eyes, Sherlock regarded his brother suspiciously.

"So, we need the majority of humankind to follow primitive instincts in order to allow those with higher instincts to thrive," he summarized.

"In essence," Mycroft sighed.

"Therein lies the problem. I never considered John to be among the primitive ranks."

Mycroft shrugged, apathetic toward the whole topic. "People have been known to change, especially under the influence of a significant other. I'll admit I didn't expect to see John step into a vintage portrait of the 1950's family either, but I cede to standing corrected."

"And I suppose I should simply do the same?"

"Do whatever you please, brother. Whether you accept reality or resist it matters previous little to me," Mycroft replied. "Yet bear in mind, the man whose family we just spent half a day with is the closest companion you've ever had. Sentiment aside, that earns him the right to not have his lifestyle dismissively labeled as 'primitive.'"

The remainder of their commute unfolded in terse silence.


	2. Maury Povich

**Chapter 2 – Maury Povich**

Monday morning arrived fierce and unforgiving to 221B Baker Street, whose tenant had overslept due to grossly missing his target bedtime. Granted, that "target" had a wide margin for error, but his mind had been far from settled when he finally collapsed on the sofa.

All day Sunday he'd fought an unseen fog that obscured his focus. Each time he felt on the verge of a breakthrough, a haze descended across his mind palace and blocked the gates.

After a fitful night's rest, Sherlock was determined to make some sort of progress that day. As much as he loathed setting his expectations low, the dull ache in his skull impelled him to select a menial task from his client pile. Then from the used clothing pile he selected a shirt that was passably clean and headed out into the dim, dreary morning toward St. Bart's.

He arrived only to bump his nose on the laboratory door, which was dark inside.

Sherlock frowned at his wristwatch. 7:50. Molly should have arrived not three minutes ago. What could be keeping her?

Slumping against the doorframe melodramatically, he toyed with the plastic vial in his pocket while he considered his options. Mostly boring, mundane projects waiting back home. Too rainy and wet outside to do a proper blood spatter analysis on pavement. Atmospheric humidity levels were too high for a spontaneous combustion study. There was one other experiment he might be able to muster enthusiasm for, but it required a C-PAP machine, and the discount home care supply store he preferred for that sort of thing was closed on Mondays.

Mondays were rubbish, always had been. Sherlock glared at his watch again – 7:56. Molly was now fully ten minutes behind schedule. It was becoming conspicuous.

He was seconds away from abandoning his post and going to search of her – hoping, yet not hoping, that foul play was involved – when at last she turned the corner, croissant breakfast sandwich in one hand and keys in the other.

"Oh, Sherlock! Good morning," she blinked, startled.

"How gracious of you to arrive to your assigned station," he replied sardonically.

Molly turned the key and glanced at him sideways. "What? I'm not late."

"Perhaps not by the time clock's standards, but by your own precedent."

She rolled her eyes, pushing the door open and flicking on the harsh fluorescents. "Heaven forbid I should reveal once in a while that I am, in fact, _human_."

"Is that your best excuse?"

"It is today," she tossed her shoulder bag on the counter. "You do realize, of course, that this conversation is even more a waste of time than waiting for me to arrive."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and his cheeks twitched. After staring at her impassively for three more seconds, he altered course.

"I have a sample that needs testing," he reached into one pocket and held forth a vial.

"I see," she squinted at it. "Cigarette stub?"

As it obviously was, Sherlock did not respond but held it forward for her to take.

"One of yours?" she joked.

"How very droll. Yes, I need to verify my own genetic identity," he deadpanned. "I need a standard DNA report, nothing more, nothing less."

Molly snapped on a pair of gloves and pursed her lips. "Rather boring. Slow week, I take it?"

"Slow _month_ ," he admitted, seating himself on a nearby stool. "My prospects have grown increasingly slim, Molly. All I'm left with are banalities such as testing DNA, like a dreadful episode of _Maury Povich_."

"Sorry to hear that. Things will pick up again soon, though. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock stared at her coldly. "Why, are you planning a heist in the near future?"

"No, I was just trying to… never mind. Forget I even tried," Molly shook her head, returning to the task at hand.

He watched her prepare the sample with half interest, craning and contorting his neck to crack the last morning stiffness away.

"It's the sort of name that really rolls off the tongue, Maury Povich," he remarked thoughtfully. "A phonetic gem. It matches the show's essence, somehow."

Molly huffed a laugh. "Just how many episodes have you _seen_ , Sherlock?"

It was a trap. If he downplayed his viewing history, she'd discount his opinion. If he admitted the truth… well, the outcome would be even more unsavory.

"Only one, and it was quite enough, thank you," he haughtily replied.

Molly pressed her lips tightly to keep from grinning. _The consulting business must really be slow lately_ , she thought with amusement. She set the timer for the DNA test and turned to Sherlock, arms casually crossed.

"So out of curiosity, what's the sample for?"

"It's for a high-profile client. I can't say."

"Oh come on, as if I'd have any reason to tell anyone!"

Inhaling slowly, he calculated he'd experience greater antagonism from Molly than from the client herself. These days, he much preferred less hassle to more.

"A celebrity – I shan't say who – suspects the father of the child she conceived through a sperm donor may, in fact, be one of her co-stars," Sherlock said in one breath. "I visited the alley behind his studio and collected the aftereffects of his nicotine addiction. It was depressingly easy."

"Well," Molly nodded, taking it in. "You've officially joined the tabloid circuit!"

"Like I said, all rather _Maury Povich_. No need to rub it in."

Glancing at the vial Sherlock had brought in, Molly saw it with new eyes. "It's amazing the lengths some people will go to just to have children."

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "It's a wonder anyone wants them at all, through artificial means or not."

Molly raised an eyebrow. That was the first she'd heard Sherlock state his opinion on the matter. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely surprised, although the distaste in his voice was somewhat stronger than she expected.

"They're really not all bad," she offered, albeit weakly.

"What would you know about it?" he spat.

"I've never met a mom who hasn't said she wouldn't trade her kids for anything."

Sherlock looked like someone was squeezing his face together at the temples. "Never met… hasn't said… wouldn't… for God's sake Molly, a _triple_ negative?! Can't you speak more precisely than that?"

"You get the point!"

"As far as I'm concerned, women are culturally indoctrinated to believe that motherhood is their ultimate vocation – even if their other skills include, say, possessing the biochemical knowledge to cure cancer. And for those who don't emotionally embrace motherhood to the perceived degree they should, publicly stating their devotion to children suffices to prove their feminine valor."

Molly's brow creased. "Are you saying all mothers are disingenuous with affection toward their children?"

"Not so much disingenuous as psychologically groomed."

She processed this another minute. "So, no pun intended, it's better for women to throw the baby out with the bathwater and avoid having children altogether, rather than consciously aiming to reshape society's expectations?"

"I - I didn't say that –"

"No need to defend yourself, Sherlock," Molly turned to check on the timer, feigning indifference. "You're entitled to your opinion the same as any other. Just be careful what you say around John and Mary," she winked.

Sherlock stared through her, locking his limbs to conceal the disturbance of being mentally undercut. _It must be lack of practice_ … he reasoned _. Curse this mental drought. Find me here on a good week, a frenzied week, and see her outwit me then!_

"Besides," Molly added, "your cynicism didn't keep you from giving an excellent baby gift."

His stare intensified, one eyebrow rising skeptically. "You thought it was excellent."

Molly nodded, eyes twinkling. "Very. Not a typical baby gift, true, but it was just exactly what _you_ ought to have given. Those are the best gifts, the ones that come straight from the heart."

Once again, with seemingly little effort, she'd caught him off-balance. Hadn't she joined in the raucous laughter when John opened that chemistry set? Yes, but apparently that didn't mean she saw it as strictly comic relief. Molly's perspective, he was gradually learning over time, contained more depth and color than one might initially guess.

"Thank you," he replied stiffly. "Though, to declare it heartfelt would be inaccurate. I chose it based on various practical factors, such as John's proclivity to involve himself in criminal investigations, my potential influence on the child's overall interests, not to mention –"

"Sherlock..."

"What?"

"When a compliment is offered, just try to accept it graciously," Molly smiled.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Is that sample finished yet?"

She checked the timer. "Nearly there, just another minute."

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly swore she caught Sherlock fidgeting uncomfortably. A faint bouncing of one knee. Yet by the time she turned toward him, the movement had stopped. Leaning casually against the counter, she rolled the timer back and forth between her hands, a thoughtful daydream filling her eyes.

"I can see it now - little baby Watson, age ten months, sitting on a playmat wearing safety goggles while Uncle Sherlock demonstrates what happens when Mentos and Coke mix!"

"Hardly a worthwhile endeavor," huffed Sherlock. "An overdone party trick, nothing more."

"Sure, but…" Molly paused, a thought striking her that hadn't before. She continued in an uncertain tone. "If John or Mary asked, would you?"

Evidently, Sherlock hadn't considered this prospect either. Being requested to perform certain novelties of empty educational value… it wasn't something he'd anticipated doing, much less asked by John to do. Surely John had more sense than that? Then again, he'd taken John to be more sensible than procreating in the first place, so nothing could be taken for granted these days.

When it came to baby Watson, Sherlock had invested all his mental energy into bracing for John's lack of consulting involvement. Not once had he stopped to ponder his own interaction with the child. If he were honest, he'd envisioned some strange sort of evolved utopia where the baby telepathically absorbed Sherlock's genius simply through his association with John, therefore never requiring direct or extended contact with each other.

The prospect of arriving at the Watson residence for the explicit purpose of fraternizing with their offspring was… foreign, to say the least. Yet Molly raised a valid point. Sherlock would likely be expected to make appearances for the child's sake. Rightly so, for whose brilliant influence could be greater? Still, the practicalities of imparting his vast wisdom could prove somewhat difficult.

"John would never ask such a thing," he dodged.

"All right, what about something else… a game of pat-a-cake?"

Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Pat-a-cake? What the devil is _that?_ "

Molly looked somewhat horrified. Before she could compose herself, the timer interrupted with its insistent beeping – the DNA test was complete.

"Here we are," she drew a breath, taking the sample to process its readings. She carried on half-distractedly while she worked, "I think spending time with baby Watson will do you good, Sherlock."

"You may believe it to be good, but I believe less exposure to infants to be better - and fewer infants overall to be best."

He could sense his words stung. Molly flinched almost imperceptibly, but somehow rallied to surprise him once more.

"I'll agree there are far too many parents who don't deserve their children," she granted. "What the world needs isn't fewer children, but more people like John and Mary to have them."

She then handed him a printed copy of the DNA results, wearing a polite smile. After a moment of silence, he muttered his thanks for the report and left – even more awkwardly than usual – without another word.


	3. White Picket Fences (Part 1)

All right folks, this next installment is the first of a two-part dream sequence that should be pretty entertaining. Enjoy. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 3 – White Picket Fences (Part 1)**

By mid-morning, the celebrity client's case was finished and Sherlock was back to pacing the length of his sitting room. By noon, he spotted the sun piercing the clouds through his shabby curtains, yet it still couldn't elucidate his state of mind. He'd vainly hoped that getting out of his flat earlier would jumpstart his senses. Instead, he'd returned with more frustration and discontent than he'd left with.

Try as he may to dwell on anything else, his thoughts swarmed relentlessly around Molly's last words.

 _More people like John and Mary_ … what was so special about them?

Perhaps she meant they'd be savvy enough to avoid modern parenting clichés. There were too many parents who did things like dress their 3-month-old in a onesie with the word "Single" stamped across the front. Or permit Spongebob Squarepants to be broadcast even once on the television. Or post weekly "anniversaries" to commemorate their child's 113th week outside the womb.

Or worse still, _reinforce_ such weekly commemorations by "liking" each post.

Oh yes, there were horrors aplenty within the untamed world of diapers, sticky pacifiers, and cranial soft spots. With so many hidden traps, would the Watsons really be able to master parenting with their sanity intact? With the odds against them, why did so many others insist they'd make "the best" parents?"

Coming to the window, Sherlock pressed his forehead against the glass. The more important question was why he felt compelled to obsess over this issue. It mattered a great deal less than, say, the cleanliness of his lavatory, yet he'd managed to ignore _that_ for ages.

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy. He needed to rest, to escape his own mind for a while. The need arose about once a year, on average. Might as well be today.

The sofa, littered with newspapers and empty cigarette cartons, had somehow never looked more inviting. Sherlock collapsed heavily on the cushions, crinkled a bit as he got comfortable, and was unconscious not five minutes later.

* * *

There was a knock at the door.

Moaning, Sherlock pried open his eyes and glared at the clock. Half past three. A three hour nap? He was disgusted with himself. Well, no sense in berating himself for another afternoon wasted. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last.

The knock came again, three insistent bangs.

"One bloody minute!" he shouted, fastening his robe. There were some ungainly maneuvers as he shuffled across the floor, kicking aside hats, shoes, and the odd skeleton replica. The drawn curtains cast a murkiness over everything that made passage even more difficult, but at last he arrived at the door.

Sherlock thrust an inhospitable eye to the peephole. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Holmes, my name's Jimmy and this is my little brother Wally."

The child speaking was barely tall enough to be seen. As Sherlock watched, a head of red hair leapt up into his field of vision, then fell back down. Wally, presumably.

"What do you want? And how do you know my name?" he demanded.

"We're your new neighbors, Mr. Holmes. We just moved in next door and wanted to say hello! Our mother baked cookies for us to bring, see?" Jimmy elevated a plate of what appeared to be sugar cookies, impeccably arranged beneath cellophane. "We already met Mr. and Mrs. Watson across the street. They said we should come here next."

 _How thoughtful of them_ , Sherlock groused to himself. "You may leave the cookies by the door."

"Gee Mr. Holmes, aren't you afraid a squirrel might come and eat them all?"

"I single-handedly eradicated all rodentia from this suburb some ten years ago, boy."

Jimmy was unfazed. "What about bugs?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. The boy was nothing if not tenacious. "Given the fastidious wrapping your mother applied to that plate, I estimate it would take an insect at least one hour to detect the scent, another hour to infiltrate the layers, and yet another hour to return to its hive to seek reinforcements. Your concern is touching, but I'll take my chances."

Though it may have been the peephole's distortion, something wicked seemed to flash across Jimmy's face. Yet just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, replaced with the same charming manners as before.

"Suit yourself Mr. Holmes! We'll just leave it here on the front stoop. Nice meeting you, have yourself a wonderful day!"

Waving cheerfully, Jimmy took his brother's hand and led him down the front walk, after which they skipped the rest of the way home.

Sherlock waited a gratuitous amount of time, then added fifteen extra minutes for good measure, before opening the door to retrieve the baked goods. He may be an inveterate misanthrope, but he'd never be so foolish as to reject free food.

Though as soon as the plate was safely inside, his next task would be to call John and Mary Watson to advise them against sending neighborhood children his way. Free food or not, this simply wasn't acceptable. Just because they thought him pitiful and in need of human contact didn't give them the right to…

"Mr. Holmes, I presume?"

He froze, bent halfway toward the plate, afraid to look up. The direction from which that voice came could only mean one thing.

"Good afternoon there! I'm glad I caught you. The kids said they stopped by earlier but you weren't feeling up to visitors," the voice drew closer with the sound of footsteps crunching across the lawn.

Sherlock slowly rose to his full height, accepting defeat. There was no escape this time. He'd walked right into it, hadn't he?

He turned just in time to see his new neighbor arrive at the edge of his hydrangeas, looking like he'd walked straight out of a Sears catalog. Perfectly pleated pants, crisp dress shirt, and cashmere sweater vest stood in stark contrast to Sherlock's sagging lounge pants and stained undershirt.

Offering his hand and a disarming smile, the stranger exuded wholesome charisma.

"Jim Moriarty, pleased to meet you."

Sherlock reluctantly extended his hand, feeling a twinge of unease. Everything about this man was polished and respectable. Why, then, did Sherlock sense darkness about him?

Jim swiftly assessed his neighbor's appearance. "You a shift worker?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dressed as you are, rising at mid-to-late afternoon – it's nothing to be ashamed of. I know plenty of folks who work the graveyard shift down at the aluminum factory in town."

"I beg your _pardon!_ " Sherlock repeated, indignant. "I happen to be a scientist! I perform advanced research and analysis on highly complex and confidential projects."

"A scientist, yes, of course," Jim nodded patronizingly. "Pity, that means we won't get to share a morning commute on the local bus. And I was so looking forward to acquainting myself further with you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stared through him, choosing to ignore his vaguely hostile undertones. Just then, his gaze caught the glint of an approaching vehicle, which slowed as it neared Moriarty's driveway. As it turned in, the driver leaned with interest toward the two men.

"Ah, my wife, back from the doctor," Jim waved to the car. "She's just one of a handful of women around here with a driver's license. Rather bold, don't you think?"

The woman who exited the car was short in stature, dark hair pulled neatly beneath a pillbox hat, and wearing oversized sunglasses. Also, judging by the odd angle at which her overcoat hung, she was approximately seven months pregnant. She pocketed her car keys and greeted her husband with a demure kiss on the cheek.

"Hello darling, sorry it took me so long. I stopped to pick up a few groceries and traffic was an absolute mess downtown," she dramatized. "But who is this? Are you going to introduce me?"

"Sherlock, this is my wife Irene. Irene, meet Sherlock Holmes, our neighborhood scientist."

If shaking Jim's hand had sent shivers down Sherlock's spine, one touch from Irene was almost paralyzing. Though she shared her husband's prim and proper façade, there was an unmistakable cunning behind those sunglasses. It seemed to lash out and ensnare his very soul.

"Delighted," she purred.

Jim drew her closer by the waist. "How was the appointment?"

"Just fine, as usual. All the measurements are right on target."

"That's my girl – healthiest babies in the country," he beamed. As if to reinforce that point, his two boys suddenly burst outside, running full speed into the yard with a wiry terrier nipping at their heels.

"Boys will be boys," chuckled Jim.

"You have a dog," Sherlock stated flatly.

"Yes sir, just got him a few months back," Jim crossed his arms complacently. "You know the old statistic – white picket fence, a dog, two and a half kids. Guess this one's the half!" he patted Irene's stomach, making her blush.

"Is the dog obedient?"

Jim shrugged. "Depends on your definition. He's housebroken… for the most part."

"Whether he stains your shag carpet does not concern me. What does is whether he disrupts the neighborhood with incessant barking."

"Couldn't say, we haven't been here long enough to tell how he likes the place."

Sherlock was starting to detest Jim's flippant attitude. "Well, allow a resident of fifteen years to apprise you of the status quo. This subdivision is renowned for its tranquility. Every dog owner who has allowed their pet to speak freely, as it were, has soon found themselves without said pet. Do I make myself clear?"

Jim cocked his head, smiling thoughtfully. "Not an animal person, Mr. Holmes?"

"The local noise ordinance is both strict and strictly enforced, Mr. Moriarty."

"Scientist by night, civic law expert by day?" quipped Jim. "A man of many talents. I do hope to hear all about them sometime, but right now my stomach is screaming for dinner. Good evening then!"

Relieved to be free of them at last, Sherlock nodded with pressed lips. Irene linked her arm through Jim's as they walked away, sauntering with more finesse than a woman in her state ought to be physically capable of. Sherlock found himself watching her sultry moves longer than intended. She turned to wink over her shoulder at him. He blanched.

" _Pleasure_ meeting you," she emphasized.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock struggled to regain control of his vocal cords. He couldn't allow the encounter to end on _that_ note.

"I don't believe you ever shared _your_ profession, Mr. Moriarty," he called out.

The smile Jim offered in return was bone-chilling. "You never asked."

* * *

Days passed. Sherlock maintained his routine, which is to say he abided by no set schedule whatsoever - conducting experiments when he wished, eating and sleeping in erratic patterns, and rising at all hours of day or night.

Once every 24-hour period, he'd pry the curtains apart just enough to poke his nose through and spy on neighborhood activity. Watching for any signs of squirrels reclaiming the yards, or young children being abducted by aliens as they rode tricycles down cracked sidewalks. How he genuinely wished to see such an outlandish thing one of these times.

That was the double-edged nature of a suburb this peaceful. Ideal for concentrating on one's work, yet intolerably dull in turn. But the status quo was about to change.

It was half past three in the morning one night when, having passed out just an hour before, Sherlock woke to an irritating sound. He made to dismiss it as a tree branch tapping against the windowpane, but soon its rhythm grew too steady – and loud – for it to be the result of wind. Yes, there was no doubt about it, someone or something was intentionally striking an object against the window in the far corner of the room.

Peeved, he grabbed a flashlight and rose to confront the prankster. Yet the instant he touched the curtains to yank them aside, there was silence.

Sherlock threw them open, flashlight beam refracting off a network of cracks radiating across the glass. Somewhere distant, he heard the sound of children's gleeful laughter echo maliciously in the night.

He sat on the edge of the sofa until dawn, the deepest scowl etching his face.

Jim Moriarty was one step off his front stoop when a grim-looking Sherlock stalked over to him. The shorter man froze, briefcase clutched against his buttoned cardigan, as he cowered beneath Sherlock's rage. Predictably, he denied all allegations that his angelic children were involved in the disturbance.

"At three in the morning?" he was beside himself. "What kind of father would I be to allow them out at such an indecent hour? They do attend school, you know!"

Though unconvinced, Sherlock was willing to let the matter pass so long as it did not recur.

When it did, he installed a surveillance camera.

Most maddening of all was that the footage revealed nothing. There appeared at one point to be a pair of glowing blue eyes beneath his holly bushes, but the next second they vanished. Probably just a figment of his sleep-deprived brain.

Irene sunbathing in the nude, however, was not imaginary. Although the first time it happened, Sherlock did think he might be hallucinating.

It was mid-afternoon. The sun had just passed its zenith and the temperature peaked for the day. School-age children were still in class for another half hour, the postman and milkman had both finished their rounds well before noon, and the neighborhood was enveloped in a rare perfect stillness. Why Sherlock chose that moment to perform his daily scan of things was an inscrutable coincidence.

The sightline between his vantage point and Moriarty's backyard was direct, not obscured by a single leaf on the thinnest tree branch. When Irene stepped onto the patio in kitten heel slippers whose feather straps matched the trim on her short robe, Sherlock sensed trouble. He could see it in the lascivious manner she surveyed the yard, eyes dancing impishly as she alighted on a reclining lawn chair.

Then, without preamble, all pieces of her ensemble were no longer on her person but piled neatly on the grass beside her.

Sherlock gawked, holding his breath as if it might carry through the closed window and across both lawns. The woman had less decorum and class than he could comprehend. To even consider such a thing in this neighborhood, where parcels abutted each other with small space between… unbelievable, to say nothing of her advanced state of pregnancy. How would her husband respond to such a flagrant, inappropriate display of his wife's form?

Sherlock coughed. He knew the answer to that rhetorical question when a warm, unbidden sensation began creeping up his neck. Gasping, he flung the curtains shut and shakily sat down.

Two minutes later, his head stopped spinning. Time to assess the situation rationally, calmly, and as a mature – albeit semi-sociopathic – adult. While he'd never needed it before, he was certain there existed a public statute prohibiting nudity. In the name of all that was holy, there had to be. With this pale confidence, he picked up the phone, dialed the local police number by memory, and in turn received a dead line. For the first time ever in fifteen years, his phone service had been disconnected.

Fine. This minor setback would only make him all the more determined _. I know my way to city hall quite well, thank you very much_ , he grumbled as he threw on a jacket and flung open the door, stepping out into the sunlight and…

…a pile of canine feces deposited squarely in the center of his walkway.


	4. White Picket Fences (Part 2)

_Sorry for the delay between chapters, summer happened I guess._

 _And now, the dream / nightmare's conclusion…_

 **Chapter 4 – White Picket Fences (Part 2)**

* * *

Whether Irene's misdeeds earned a stern reprimand from her spouse, Sherlock didn't know and certainly didn't care. The citation she received was enough to keep another incident from occurring on Sherlock's watch – ever. Distractions like that… there was no place for them, not in this suburb and nor his research schedule.

Just when he dared to hope things might return to normal, he observed a shift in activity levels next door. Young Jimmy and Wally used to engage in outdoor play every evening with the dog, but then it became every other evening, then only once or twice a week. Two weeks passed with no sign of them or the terrier. Occasionally Sherlock would spot Jim or Irene ducking through their front door, but otherwise it was if the entire house was on lockdown.

That changed when Jim came to knock persistently at Sherlock's door late one evening.

"Sherlock, it's Jim. I know you're in there. Listen, I know we're not friends, but the family and I are having a real tough time right now, and we need your help. Please open the door?"

Behind Jim's words was a pitiful desperation, potentially brought on by foul play. Sherlock never could resist that possibility.

"What?" he pulled the chain taut.

"It's our dog Rex. He's been missing for several days and we're getting worried. Have you seen anything while you've been… around all day?"

"No – aside from a delightful gift he left on my front walk earlier this month," Sherlock huffed.

"Oh. Well, if you do see anything, anything at all that might be a clue, would you be so kind as to let us know?"

"You begged me to come to the door for _this?_ A scrappy little mutt who thinks every yard on this block is his personal latrine?" scoffed Sherlock. "Let me put it this way, Mr. Moriarty. Even if I do happen to chance upon some unlikely piece of evidence that precious _Rex_ is still alive, I would do this entire neighborhood a favor by not telling a soul, least of all you!"

Straightening the hem of his plaid vest, Jim seemed all too composed. As if he were expecting – nay, hoping for – that very response.

"That's a real shame, Sherlock. I'd hoped just this once, we might start treating each other as neighbors should. But I see that's just not in our future."

It was a _dog_ , a homely one at that, with few redeeming qualities. Why Sherlock should care one whit about the creature or its daft owners was quite beyond him.

"If there's ever a real emergency, one actually worth investigating, do call upon me _then_ , Mr. Moriarty," Sherlock condescended, closing the door in the other man's face.

Therefore he missed the evil gleam in Jim's eye and the chilling tone in which he replied,

"Oh, the next time tragedy strikes, Mr. Holmes, I promise you'll be the first to know about it."

* * *

Once a year, usually just after Halloween, Sherlock took rake and trowel in hand to make an attempt at yard maintenance. This year took the prize. In addition to the usual wigs, leaves, and weeds, there were scores of bathroom tissue rolls hanging from the boughs like tacky, oversized tinsel.

 _How thoughtful of the local ruffians_ , Sherlock mused while atop the ladder. _They provided just enough tissue to wipe my yard clean of Rex's excrement_.

Halfway through de-tinseling the maple tree, he paused to rest. He'd rarely seen the neighborhood from this vantage. It was nice, actually. The leaves were in various stages of turning and the autumn breeze ruffling them was fresh. For a brief instant, he experienced what may have just been his first smelling-the-roses moment. Yes, the plain little houses dotting the street seemed a great deal quainter from this height. And the…

What was _that_ on the pavement next door?

Sherlock stared, focusing hard on the red spots. Leaves - they must be. But no, they remained static with the next gust of wind. Whether it was the chill of the wind or something else, the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stood at attention.

Slowly descending the ladder, he pulled the edges of his jacket tighter. Neither Jim nor Irene were home and the boys were still at school. He should be able to make a discreet observation and then return to his business without anyone the wiser. He'd turn the corner around their rhododendron bushes, glance at their driveway and then laugh at his overactive imagination. An imagination that expected to find blood-stained patterns dotting the concrete.

Which is exactly what he found.

The mild chill he'd felt before now made him shiver from head to foot. Sherlock checked over his shoulder to verify no one was watching, that this wasn't some crude prank staged by the Moriarty's. But the only observer was the wind.

He'd seen blood in all manner of states, quantities, and patterns before, and in far gorier contexts than this. Yet not in this exact formation. Frantic pawprints scattered in every direction, punctuated by… Sherlock leaned closer, praying he was mistaken. But he wasn't. There were two sets of small, child-size footprints intermixed.

As if two boys and a dog had stepped in a tray of red paint and then danced… and danced…

"Mail come for you, Mr. Sherlock, sir!"

Startled, Sherlock turned to find the mailman waving a stack of envelopes at him, smiling and clueless. Sherlock cautiously took the items and turned back toward his house in a daze.

"What's all that?" asked the mailman, pointing to the red-stained driveway.

"Nothing…" Sherlock tucked his chin into his coat collar. "Just some spilled paint." He hurried inside before the curious government worker could pose any more questions. Curse the man for interrupting him!

So many questions, such bizarre circumstances. Could things really be as grisly as they appeared? What in heaven's name happened to that dog? Wait - he didn't care. If the dog _had_ met a gruesome end, however inhumane, it was a victory for everyone's grass. He ought to consider the matter settled and move on. Presently, he had the convenient distraction of fresh mail.

Among the bills and promotional fliers was a rather large envelope, hand-addressed and altogether grand in appearance. It contained a formal invitation to the Annual Forensic Research Awards banquet. No sooner had he finished looking it over when the phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Good day Sherlock, it's John."

There was silence.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I said it's me, John."

Sherlock drummed his fingers idly, rolling his eyes. "If you're waiting for me to introduce myself, there's no need. You know perfectly well whom you called."

John sighed, starting to regret dialing Sherlock's number. "Yes of course. How foolish of me. Anyway, I was wondering if you received a certain article of mail today."

"I received several articles of mail, I'm touched by your concern."

"I _mean_ , did you receive an invitation to the forensic awards dinner?"

"Oh, that. Yes."

"What do you make of it?"

Sherlock frowned, turning the invitation over. "It's made of high-quality card stock, printed with bleed-resistant ink, and cost double postage to send. I wager that's half the reason the admission fees are so outrageous."

John sighed again. "What I _mean_ is, have you ever heard of this event? Do you think it's legitimate?"

"While the reservation fees are likely padding several politicians' pockets, I have no reason to doubt the attendees will receive dinner and witness an award ceremony. Whether or not those are worth $100 is a matter of opinion, but not necessarily a question of fraud."

"Do you plan on attending, then?" John sounded skeptical.

"I'd barely finished reading the details before you called. I haven't decided yet."

"Well, if you do decide to, Mary and I will go as well."

"And if I abstain?"

"Oh, just let us know once you've made up your mind!" John hung up, exasperated.

Sherlock absently hung the phone back on its perch. Rubbing the silky smooth card stock between his fingers, he gazed at the invitation and felt overwhelmingly drawn to it. Whoever crafted this had invested great resources and attention to detail. Though he hadn't seen John's invitation, he knew it must be of inferior quality to his own. He alone was the guest of honor. He was ethically obliged to go, cost be damned.

Somewhere at the bottom of his closet lay a wrinkled, forlorn tuxedo. Or perhaps only part of one. Or at least something black that wasn't a pair of pajamas. Whatever it was, he'd dig it out and make an appearance. Sherlock Holmes would be present that night to receive all he deserved.

* * *

John's doubts regarding the award banquet were totally unfounded. The event was a resounding success, with over a hundred distinguished guests from all of London's upper echelons. Everyone was charming and delightful - even Sherlock, to the highest degree he was capable, that is.

His manners became decidedly more gracious after he received the Forensic Society's Lifetime Achievement Award. No one seemed to notice or mind that he was a few decades short of deserving a _lifetime_ award. The applause was deafening, the celebratory cake almost too good to eat, and not a soul left the party dissatisfied or sober. He, John, and Mary tripped and stumbled their way home along side streets, knees loose and cheeks aching from laughter.

"Ho Sherlock, careful with that award! Don't drop it!" John warned.

"Maybe you better hold on to it," slurred Sherlock, thrusting the golden magnifying glass toward his friend.

John's eyes crossed. His hands swiped the air, missing the trophy several times before giving up. "Good idea Sherlock, but _not_ such a good idea!" he exploded with laughter anew.

"Here, you buffoons, I'll carry it!" It took Mary just two tries to grab the award. She stuffed it in her handbag.

"See now, aren't you glad you went out with us tonight?" John jabbed Sherlock with his elbow.

"Mm… I seem to recall _you_ were the one who needed convincing."

"Yeah, well, only because you've got me conditioned to…" John yawned. "To…"

"Come now John, speak clearly! No one likes a mumbler," Sherlock snorted.

There was a lag in their collective gait. John slowed as if lead weights had been tied to his ankles. Sherlock and Mary were several paces ahead before they turned and found him paralyzed beneath a street lamp. He was staring, not at them, but off in an obscure direction.

"Sherlock…" John's mouth hung open. "I may not be thinking the clearest right now, so help a guy out, but look over that way."

Sherlock followed the trajectory of John's extended arm, over the brick ranch across the street, through the bare, skeletal trees silhouetted behind, and then beyond that…

Fire.

Though flames weren't visible, the dancing orange glow illuminating the night was unmistakable. Something was burning just around the corner, and it wasn't just a backyard campfire.

Fear gave the trio a sudden burst of coordination, enough to run full speed down the street, left at the stop sign, and around the curve. Hearts pounding, cheeks flushed and lungs screaming, they shared a mounting dread that grew each time their heels struck the ground. Somehow they knew.

They knew it would be Sherlock's residence that was fully engulfed in flames, with its roof collapsed and a small crater where the front yard used to be. An entourage of fire trucks had just arrived at the scene, but a murmur of defeat rolled through the spectators. It was far, far too late to salvage the property. May as well let the fire run its course and save the town's municipal water for another day.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, arms outstretched in quiet agony. John and Mary flanked him, their stricken faces identical to his. From Sherlock's throat came the barely audible version of a constricted scream – much like an elderly patient trying to speak with a GI tube down his throat.

He watched the firemen fumble to connect the hose to the hydrant. He watched his chimney slowly crumble like a soggy piece of graham cracker on a gingerbread house. He felt the searing heat of the blaze, watched embers spit and fly into the cool ether of the night sky. If he weren't so outraged, so beside himself with fury and the livid need to know WHY, and HOW, he might almost imagine this was a bonfire, perhaps even on the beach.

But this was no beach, and the fire was not deliberate… or was it?

Out of the corner of Sherlock's eye, the Moriarty clan was approaching. Jim, little Jimmy Junior, Wally, and Irene carrying their newest member, a girl with fiery red curls. Sherlock had spotted her the first time last week and remembered thinking her hair would likely burn anyone who dared to touch it. Perhaps not such a wild theory, after all.

"Sherlock, thank goodness you weren't home earlier!" exclaimed Jim, distraught. "You wouldn't believe what happened!"

"No, I probably wouldn't," Sherlock growled.

"Irene and I were just about finished putting the kids to bed when KABOOM!" Jim threw up his hands for effect. "We thought a bomb had landed! We all fell to the ground but then realized the air raid siren hadn't gone off. So then we crawled over to the window, and right smack dab in the middle of your house was a smoldering meteor!"

Sherlock stared at the hysterical man. He was quite agitated, flailing his arms and appearing generally unhinged. Yet in contrast to this display stood the rest of his family. It could have been the faltering light playing tricks on his eyes, but Sherlock saw identical masks of boredom on each face. They stood with infallible posture, much like soldiers in formation. Even the baby had a mask of stoic duty on her face, as if she too was performing a role she hoped would end soon.

"Yes…" Sherlock replied slowly, eyes narrowing. "How conspicuously _fortunate_ that I was absent. The one night I have been absent in fifteen years is the very night that a small meteor strikes my house, with all the damage contained neatly within my property lines. What a truly blessed coincidence!"

Jim smiled grimly. "Yes, however… I'm afraid the news isn't _all_ good tonight."

"Of course not, that would _really_ defy the odds."

"It saddens me to do this, Sherlock, it really does. But I have to consider my family's emotional well-being above all else, and given our history as neighbors, well, I'm sorry it came to this."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Jim watched another set of emergency vehicles turn the corner – this time, three police squad cars. Their doors opened and closed in synchronized union, and three very stern-looking officers carrying steel batons closed in on Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the cruel, senseless, and unprovoked killing of a domestic animal," one of them declared. Fire reflected off the smooth, polished surface of a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock's mouth ran dry.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he stammered, taking a step backwards.

"Slaughtering a dog is no joke, Mr. Holmes," the officer replied solemnly. "You know, you could have contacted us when you first started having issues with the Moriarty's dog. We could have ordered a leash, or a fence. We're a civilized society. No need for such brutal violence," he snapped the handcuffs in place. "No need at all."

"What in the name of – this is preposterous! I've never harmed an animal in my life!" Sherlock threw his gaze upon Moriarty, who now appeared distinctly smug. "YOU! You framed me for this! That stupid, worthless dog… couldn't you have just bought another shaggy mutt from the pound and let your kids torture it to death too?"

Jim shrugged, ambivalent. "Thanks for the suggestion. You'll have plenty of time to grow even more pearls of wisdom where you're going."

Sherlock struggled against the three sets of muscled arms carrying him away. As a squad car door was opened for him, he cast one final desperate look at John and Mary, who were petrified with shock and of no help whatsoever.

"John! First thing tomorrow, come down to the station and –"

"That's enough talkin' for tonight," one of the officers swatted him upside the head.

Waving cheerfully, Jim looked as pleased as if he were bidding farewell to the in-laws after a month-long stay. "Take care, Sherlock! Been nice knowing you. If ever you're feeling down, just pull out that Lifetime Achievement Award!"

Sherlock glared as the car door closed him in. Then realization hit.

His mouth fell open, roaring at his nemesis as they slowly drove away. For Moriarty to know the title of an award hidden in Mary's purse…

If he ever got out of prison, he'd never accept another banquet invitation again.

* * *

 _End of nightmare._

 _And at the same time, just the beginning…hahaha!_


	5. The Tuba

_Back to the normal storyline. No more dreams, I promise!_

* * *

 **Chapter 5 – The Tuba**

The grandfather clock in Sherlock's apartment struck the twelfth chime for midnight just as he woke in cold sweat. Clutching his chest, he tried to calm his heart from hammering straight through his sternum. Slowly, ever so slowly, his nervous system reduced its voltage and he managed to sit upright without vertigo.

One at a time, he stared down each object in the gloom to confirm its size and position. The lampshade, the bullet holes, the computer desk… thank God, it was all there, just as it should be. It was the same embarrassingly messy flat he'd come to love - not some tidy little bungalow from a Thomas Kinkade painting.

He closed his eyes to savor the moment. It was all just a dream. An unnervingly lucid dream, but nonetheless.

Burying his face in his palms, Sherlock inhaled deeply. A nightmare that complex required thorough analysis. And like it or not, he was fully awake now. _No time like the present_.

He'd have to approach it methodically. Dissect each piece of symbolism and tag it, label it, like organs during an autopsy.

First piece: a 1950's-era suburb populated by nuclear families. From the neighborhood's perspective, he was the strange one, the recluse who barely let his skin come in direct contact with sunlight.

Mycroft had mentioned the 1950's culture while returning from the Watson's baby shower. There, that much was explained, at least. And the reclusive bit was just an exaggeration of his intellectual disconnect with the human race.

Second piece: Moriarty as his neighbor. Again, fairly easy. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as they say.

Third piece: Moriarty's family.

The phrase was such an oxymoron that Sherlock's brain balked at it. Moriarty's _family_.

Good thing the first two pieces were swiftly dealt with, because this next one threatened to consume serious time.

His initial reaction to dream-Moriarty's offspring had been… discomfort. Even before his dream-self discovered Moriarty's evil nature, Sherlock sensed something was amiss. Instinct told him the boys carried more than just Moriarty's physical resemblance. Their genetic code contained unseen traits that their school uniforms couldn't reform.

Children within that family tree didn't stand a chance at normal, law-abiding lifestyles. Their gene pool was too saturated with psychopathic tendencies for any recessive features to thrive.

At five minutes past midnight, it dawned on Sherlock that this third element, Moriarty's family, was not so much a symbol as a warning.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. How had he been so blind? Why had it taken this long for him to spot such an obvious threat? If he needed conclusive evidence that his powers of observation were slipping lately, this was it. Thank heavens he realized it before it was too late.

But then, what difference did it make? Moriarty could choose to procreate at any time, regardless of whether or not Sherlock was aware. For all Sherlock knew, he could have already made surrogacy arrangements with anyone. Perhaps even Irene. His subconscious had, admittedly, cast her role rather well.

He gnawed on his lip, growing increasingly distressed. Why, oh why hadn't he thought of this scenario before?

The clock now read 12:13. Mycroft should be up at this hour. And if not, he soon would be. Sherlock dialed his brother and waited three rings before Mycroft's sluggish voice came on the line.

"What is it?"

" _Three_ rings, brother? Did you pass out with a bottle of scotch after the eleven o'clock news again?"

Mycroft released a long, slow sigh through his nose. "You didn't call just to mock me, so get on with it."

"I had a nightmare." Sherlock grimaced, feeling a bit like a five-year-old.

"Oh, is that all? Please, tell me every fascinating detail."

"It's not the nightmare itself that matters, but the danger to which it alerted me," Sherlock explained quickly. "A danger which I am both ashamed and moderately terrified to have overlooked."

The tremor in Sherlock's voice was real, Mycroft recognized. "You have my attention."

"I'm afraid I don't have a delicate way of putting this, so here it is. Nothing is stopping Moriarty from reproducing. Though he is currently incarcerated, you and I both know his cunning knows no limit. If he were to escape–"

"He won't, Sherlock. I saw to his security protocol personally."

"In no way do I mean to belittle your prowess in such matters. But when it comes to Moriarty, maximum precautions may prove ineffective in the long term."

"While I firmly disagree, you may continue with this imaginary scenario, wherever it may lead."

"Most gracious of you. Now, escape is only one potential route for complications. The other is this: what if Moriarty has already sown the seeds of his progeny? What if somewhere on this planet, right now, someone is carrying or raising his child? What if evil has already taken root and will continue to grow regardless of when Moriarty escapes?"

The heavy silence from Mycroft's end meant he hadn't yet considered this either. That much, at least, was a small comfort to Sherlock.

"We cannot dismiss that possibility," Mycroft conceded.

"The practical and ethical dilemmas are fairly obvious. Tracking a young child with no criminal history or other adult markers is difficult under normal circumstances. This child would certainly not share Moriarty's surname, making the search impossible."

"And even if we were to succeed, what would we do upon finding him or her? Break down the door, arrest the child for a predisposition toward committing future crimes, and call it a day? We'd have no recourse whatsoever."

"You just summed up the ethical dilemma nicely," replied Sherlock.

"I suppose we could follow their progress through school, change of addresses and the like," mused Mycroft, "But eventually they'll reach an age to be clever enough – and legally able – to change their name and vanish."

"And then it will be time for round two. We'll be as old as dirt by then, still mentally sharp but less physically able to sustain the chase."

"Indeed," Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock sighed as well. "I don't know what I was thinking, honestly. That I'd play cat and mouse with Moriarty until we reached a mutually agreed-upon retirement age, then play cribbage and shuffleboard at the old folk's home? That he and I will be the only surviving pair of villain and anti-villain left on the planet?"

"Come to think of it, that all does seem somewhat naïve."

Bristling at his brother's criticism, Sherlock had no retort. "Well, there you have it. Now you understand my need to call at this hour."

"Yes, time is of the essence. As we speak, Moriarty's gametes may be fertilizing Irene Adler's eggs for a one a.m. in-vitro procedure."

"Very funny. Are you satisfied now? I mocked you, you mocked me, we're even?"

"Yes, I'd say so."

"Do you intend to help me now, or should I disturb John's sleep instead?"

"Stop being so dramatic," Mycroft rebuked. "Tell me how, exactly, you expect me to help in a situation beyond both of our control?"

"Don't you see? If it _has_ happened, if it _will_ happen, if it _can_ happen, we need a plan to even the playing field! Simply shrugging our shoulders and waiting for the inevitable is not an option!"

"A plan that doesn't involve abducting an as-yet unidentifiable minor?"

"That would be ideal."

A low, dry chuckle rumbled against Sherlock's ear. What could Mycroft possibly find amusing about a situation like this?

"Gad, you really are that obtuse, aren't you?" Mycroft said to himself. "Sherlock, when I was ten, I took up the saxophone for a few months. Do you remember that?"

"My eardrums certainly do."

"Do you recall what you did the day after you first heard me practicing?"

"I convinced mummy to let me cash in some of my treasury bonds to buy a tuba."

"Each time I played, you blared that monstrosity so loud I could barely hear my own notes."

"Are you fishing for an apology?"

"Hardly," Mycroft chuckled again. "I lost interest in my instrument by summer's end, and you gave up on the tuba shortly after. What happened after that?"

Sherlock thought a moment. "I perused a variety of brass options before discovering my essence was best channeled through the violin."

"That's correct."

"You sound very self-satisfied, as if that little stroll down memory lane served a purpose."

"I simply wanted to remind you of something," the smile in Mycroft's voice was evident. "Under certain conditions, you are not above shameless, direct competition to establish preeminence."

True enough, but Mycroft was referencing a decades-old incident. Sherlock had acted out of childish insecurity, fearing musical talent might steal their parents' favor. Buying the tuba was an impulsive act of self-preservation.

Which, depending on one's viewpoint, the current situation might also qualify to evoke self-preservation.

 _Damn it Mycroft, if you're getting at what I think you are…_

Sherlock gripped the phone tightly, forcing himself to finish the tuba analysis. Even after the threat passed when Mycroft abandoned music, Sherlock persisted in the pastime. Having mastered a skill that his sibling could not, he saw value in retaining that distinction.

The moral of the story: it wasn't enough to neutralize the immediate threat. He wanted an enduring quality to serve him throughout life. When Sherlock Holmes stooped to seemingly base levels, there was always a higher motive beneath it all.

"Well Sherlock, have you mapped the parallels between past and present?" Mycroft pressed.

Of course he had. He wasn't dense. But the implications…

Sherlock's mouth ran dry.

"Yes, but…"

"Then you know the logical course of action."

"You can't be serious!"

"Quite. You sought my recommendation. I provided it promptly and with clear judgment."

Sherlock tried to regulate his breathing. "Mycroft, think of what you're advising! A _child?_ The logistics of that… seriously, Mycroft! Your logic may be arguably sound, but your grasp on reality is anything but!"

"I'm not interested in a _pot calling the kettle black_ session," Mycroft yawned. "You asked for my help and received it. I'm confident you of all people can engineer the _logistics_ , as you put it."

"But you can't just –"

"Goodnight, little brother."

When the call ended, the silence resounded like a thunderclap.

* * *

Three a.m. and the earth's rotation seemed to be speeding up. Whether it was because of or in spite of Sherlock's pacing, he couldn't say.

He'd spent the first hour cursing Mycroft repeatedly. The second hour, he tried vainly to discredit his brother's reasoning. And the most recent hour consisted of hyperventilating, dizziness, and intermittent panic attacks. Every now and then, he'd breathe in and out of a crinkled brown paper lunch bag.

Was this it, then? Collapsed in an undignified pile on the floor, trembling ever so slightly, resigning himself to a fate worse than… than…

 _Stop being so dramatic_ , Mycroft's words echoed derisively. Easier said than done.

How could he be calm when his own brother had told him quite pointedly to procreate?

To be fair, Mycroft _had_ left the logistics open to interpretation. There were multiple routes to arrive at the same destination. Aside from the most "common" avenue (Sherlock's dead last preference), there was surrogacy. If he thought it a viable option for Moriarty, it should be no less so for himself.

Yet surrogacy was complicated. The celebrity sperm donor case last week illustrated that much. Aside from legal entanglements, there were other unpleasant aspects such as interviews, screenings, and clinical visits he'd just as soon avoid. The time required to locate a suitable woman, combined with all the paperwork, financial cost, and general hassle did not appeal to him.

Adoption also crossed Sherlock's mind but was soon dismissed as well. Genetics played too significant a role in one's overall aptitude. Environmental influence alone could not be trusted to groom a mastermind of his caliber. He needed as few unknown variables as possible.

Curse Mycroft and his impossible suggestions! Didn't he know this was futile? He and Sherlock would do well to forget the whole matter and pray Sherlock to vanquish all psychopaths before they have the chance to procreate.

That was folly, of course. The world would always possess an unending supply of psychopaths. Unfortunately, there was no such guarantee for heroic geniuses. The ratio would forever be balanced in evil's favor.

Sherlock couldn't defy those odds. Fate had won before he even realized the game was on. And now, the game's rules were changing more rapidly than he could handle.

He had two options.

Do nothing and surrender the world to an uncertain future, carrying the guilt of countless generations with each step he took until he died.

Or…

Subvert his personal tastes, desires, and ethos for the sake of all mankind.

Couldn't there be a third choice, hidden somewhere in-between? _No,_ Sherlock sighed in deep defeat. _This is the dichotomy I've been given. I must choose_.

Ultimately, the choice was determined by which outcome Moriarty would prefer.

Sherlock knew he must choose the opposite. Even if it killed him a little bit.


	6. Care for a Scone?

_Yes, I know it's been ages. I have a confession: I'm more obsessed with sewing than writing, and I've spent the past few months bolstering my winter wardrobe (including a new wool peacoat, which took 20+ hours to make). For what it's worth, my friends say it looks very "Sherlockian." So I'm exonerated, right? Right...?  
Happy Thanksgiving!_

* * *

 **Chapter 6 – Care for a Scone?**

Committing himself to this very untoward course of action required research. Though on the brink of violating his integrity through and through, Sherlock would at least do so with good academic form. He owed himself that much.

Mary Watson's due date was fast approaching. He had only a week or two to wait before gaining access to prime, first-hand experience.

When the time came, Sherlock's presence in the hospital waiting room was rather unexpected. His lingering presence in Mary's suite afterward, posing dozens of birth-related questions (many too intimate to answer), was downright inexplicable. John and Mary exchanged confused glances – and a sigh of relief – when he finally left hours later.

Then came the house calls. The daily visits, accompanied with diapers or other thoughtful gifts. Sherlock's behavior was becoming increasingly odd, and that was saying something. Since when did he bring sensible gifts? Or request to actually hold an infant? Or stare, unblinking, at that infant's face long after she fell asleep in his arms?

His attention wasn't tender, per se, but it was conspicuous nevertheless. And the endless questions… how often did she defecate? How many decibels, on average, were her cries? On a scale of one to ten, how likely was the sound of a bone saw to wake her? What exactly did the game of pat-a-cake involve?

On the third day of Sherlock's inquisition, John couldn't take it anymore. He waited until Mary was out of the room and then turned the tables.

"Listen Sherlock, Mary and I think it's great you visit Adeline every day," he leaned in, arms crossed. "But frankly, it's getting weird. I don't know what to make of you. All of a sudden you're obsessed with… well, _everything_ related to her."

John stared expectantly at his friend, whose face was utterly unreadable, as usual.

"Is there a law against taking interest in the firstborn of one's best friend?" Sherlock asked stiffly.

"No, no. And I'm not saying we don't appreciate your help or company. But let's be honest here, this isn't how you typically act around children of _any_ age. You avoid them like the plague, in part because you think they may very well be carriers of it."

"I trust your sanitation standards, John."

"I trust you too, Sherlock, but I need to know… Adeline's not part of some _experiment_ , is she?"

Sherlock's mouth fell open, snapped shut, then fell open again. His mock indignation was sputtering.

"Why, I… I am astonished you would even suspect such a thing!"

"That doesn't answer my question," John said firmly.

"I would never involve a minor in direct research without first seeking their legal guardian's permission," Sherlock defended.

" _Direct_ research," John emphasized. "What about indirect?"

Clearing his throat, Sherlock was about to divert the subject when Mary returned. She glanced between the two men and smiled tentatively.

"Well, Adeline's down for a nap. I think I'll follow her lead if you two don't mind."

"Not at all," Sherlock swiftly replied. "I've overstayed my welcome as it is. I must return to Baker Street to, ah, catch up on some analysis."

"All right, thanks for stopping by!" Mary bid him a tired yet cheerful farewell.

The instant the door latched behind Sherlock, John turned to his wife with intensely wary eyes. "Is it just me, or does he visit far more often than one would expect?"

Mary shrugged. "I'm not going to complain. He's been wonderful with Adeline."

"My point exactly," John muttered, suspicious.

"Come on John," she laughed. "Be fair. If he visited less, you'd accuse him of being his usual reclusive self. He's making an effort, and I for one commend him for it."

"Yes, but don't you think he has better things to do than spend half of each day with us? There's making an effort, and then there's making Adeline his current project."

"You're right, we really should be concerned. Snuggling a newborn is a real warning sign," Mary rolled her eyes, yawning as shuffled past him.

"Don't you see, Mary? He's Sherlock! He shouldn't be _snuggling_ anything!"

"Maybe he's finally decided to get in touch with his domestic side," she theorized before disappearing into the bedroom.

"Right, and maybe we'll hear about flying pigs on tonight's news," John muttered to himself. Sherlock may think himself too clever for John to catch on to whatever he was doing, but sooner or later, he'd figure it out. With Sherlock acting this out of character, it was only a matter of time before the plot revealed itself.

* * *

The first stage of research was complete. It had to be, after John started asking too many questions. Or rather, _Sherlock_ started asking too many. He should have paced himself, reined in his curiosity so as not to draw too much attention. Well, too late for that now. He'd just have to work with what he'd extracted so far.

Stage two involved visiting the local library, piling all material from the parenting section onto a reference cart, and earning a pair of very raised eyebrows from the checkout desk clerk.

He consumed the library content in one afternoon. Afterward, he stared into infinity for two hours, immobilized by visions of C-section diagrams and vaccination molecular structures. It took a while to archive everything it in his mind palace. These were not concepts one typically encountered in the normal course of consulting.

He returned the books when finished. He reduced his visits to the Watson home to once or twice weekly, dialing back his curiosity so as to quell suspicion. Truthfully though, there wasn't much left to glean from those visits. He'd dredged all he could from the well of John and Mary's knowledge. Same with the library books and periodicals.

That was that, then. The academic portion of this endeavor was over.

This dawned on Sherlock abruptly one afternoon. His pen finished the last stroke in his observation notebook – cheekily titled _Project Tuba_ – when he felt a sudden cardiac arrhythmia. In that moment, he realized there were no more obstetric or pediatric journals to review. No more hiding places within his scholastic comfort zone.

It was time.

Where was that brown paper lunch bag? He needed it. Badly.

The panic he'd felt last week came rushing back with a vengeance. _I am on the brink of utter madness and self-destruction. Oh God, this is really happening… I have to talk to her. Oh… oh no, I think I'm going to…_ Sherlock convulsed and made one final use of the brown paper bag.

Closing his eyes, he commanded his senses to return to themselves. He was Sherlock Holmes, greatest, most gifted mastermind in known history. He had outsmarted hundreds of maniacs, foiled countless evil schemes, and single-handedly caused crime dynasties to unravel.

Yet he would rather face the whole lot of it again than speak with one Molly Hooper about this… proposed arrangement.

The shaking in his knees wasn't just due to fear of rejection. (Though even the great Sherlock Holmes wasn't immune to his amygdala's instincts.) There was also the modest pressure of saving the world. One simple "no" from Molly and everything – his research, logging hours with Adeline, everything – would be for naught. And that, more than the personal blow of rejection, had his stomach in knots.

Why, oh why did he have to deliver the sales pitch that determined the world's fate? Didn't fate know his salesmanship was deplorable? He'd never even sold one box of school fundraising candy bars. In third grade, he went door-to-door reading each wrapper's nutrition facts and sharing statistics about the diabetes epidemic.

He'd just have to dust off that winning charm and go knock on another door. But which one? St. Bart's, or Molly's flat?

St. Bart's was clinical, austere – likely not the preferred venue for discussing intimate matters. Molly's apartment, meanwhile, was uncharted territory. He might be distracted by the panorama of new things to study, and he really couldn't risk having his attention divided, not now. He needed every ounce of awareness at his disposal, and even that might not be enough.

St. Bart's, then. Right next to the test tubes and lab equipment Molly used to analyze all manner of bodily fluids. _Just as it should be_ , he thought drily.

Sherlock checked the time. Almost four. Molly would only be at the lab for another half hour. To spring this on her now would be unfair.

First thing tomorrow morning, then. No… her entire day's workflow would be disrupted. That wasn't fair either.

It should be noon, lunchtime. But that would make her food settle poorly, if she felt like eating at all. She'd have a stomachache until bedtime.

Mid-afternoon? Ugh, could he even wait that long? The thought of watching the clock all morning and then some… he'd surely go insane.

Gritting his teeth, he tunneled his fingers through his hair. Stalling was so unbecoming of Sherlock Holmes. Where was this timidity coming from? He needed to stop the excuses, march down to St. Bart's with all the authority of the Queen herself, and make this happen.

He stood, placed one narrow foot in front of the other, and reached for his coat.

* * *

Uncharacteristically crowded sidewalks and poorly timed crosswalk lights made Sherlock sprint the last two blocks to St. Bart's. _Oh no you don't, London_. _You will_ not _sabotage this! I'll be damned if you delay this until tomorrow!_

Had he been two seconds slower, that likely would have happened. He rounded the corner just in time to see Molly descending the building's front steps.

Sherlock drew up short, breathless. That pesky arrhythmia had returned.

She was so blissfully ignorant, with her ponytail slightly askew and the clasp on her purse bouncing as she walked along. He was about to shatter this savored moment of closing another workday.

He was about to cross a line, and poor Molly hadn't the faintest idea.

In several long strides he closed the gap between them. "Molly?"

She recognized the voice – even more baritone than usual – and turned, smiling.

"Sherlock, hello." She sounded tired, but not unhappy to see him. He'd take it.

"Yes, hello. Good afternoon, or evening, as it were. I was wondering if…"

"I'm sorry Sherlock, any labs you need will have to wait until tomorrow," Molly said apologetically. "It's been an exhausting day."

"That's not why I'm here."

Puzzled, Molly blinked. "Then what…?"

Sherlock looked furtively over both shoulders, then leaned in and lowered his voice.

"I was hoping to discuss a somewhat private matter with you, um… in private."

"Oh," Molly faltered. She didn't entirely like the sound of that.

"Are you available?" he asked pointedly. "I – I mean, are you available _currently_ , to join me at the café across the street?"

It was a hole in the wall. But something in Sherlock's eyes made Molly consider it.

"I suppose," she hesitantly replied.

He led her by the arm, racing with her through traffic to land on the opposite sidewalk. A cluster of jingle bells chimed as they entered the café, which was poorly lit and smelled of bagels and bleach.

"This way, to the back room," Sherlock guided her.

They passed two other customers nibbling on sorry-looking scones. Tucked behind the kitchen was a narrow door hung with a threadbare curtain. Sherlock held it aside for Molly, checked to make sure no one of consequence had seen them, and then followed her in.

There was a wobbly square table and two vinyl-backed chairs awaiting them. An overhead lamp flickered, casting a dirty yellow glow over everything. Molly held her purse close as she sat down on the edge of her seat.

"This place is… interesting," she eyed all four corners of the tiny room, looking for roaches or other unwelcome guests.

"Sorry. It's a little unpolished but we won't be interrupted here."

A bald, apron-clad man poked his head in just then. One look at Sherlock and he nodded with a grunt.

"Ah, shoulda known it was you. Waddlya have?"

"Nothing," Sherlock threw him a severe look.

"Gotcha," the man quickly retreated, hands up.

Sherlock continued to stare intensely at the curtain for another minute. When satisfied, he turned back to Molly.

"As I said, there will be no interruptions."

"All right," she squirmed.

"Yes." He folded his hands on the table, causing it to tip unevenly. Then the hands went to his lap, but he thought better of that placement, given Molly's perspective. After some more awkward maneuvers, he settled on crossing his arms.

"Settled?" asked Molly, amused.

Physically, yes. But psychologically…

 _Breathe, Sherlock. Start out slowly, ease her into the concept. Establish the logical basis for everything and it will all fall into place._

 _Trust the script._

"As you know, consulting work has been sparse lately."

"Yes. That's very unfortunate."

"And I abhor boredom."

"Truer words were never spoken," she laughed.

"This dearth of activity has lasted longer than previous episodes – and consequently has afforded me ample time to ponder certain concepts, the nature of which is rather distinct among my ponderings, not so much in terms of the effort required to ponder them, but the global perspective involved, which is accented by –"

"Sherlock…"

" – elements of personal consideration, and indeed those are not mutually exclusive, contrary to some modern schools of philosophy –"

"Sherlock! Can you spit it out already? I have dinner plans in an hour."

"I am attempting to assure you of the very sound intellectual framework underscoring my research findings."

"Nobody in their right mind would ever accuse you of being intellectually faulty," Molly asserted.

No argument there. She'd as good as called him out on stalling.

He blinked, trying to shuffle what remained of the script. "I suppose it would be redundant to validate my endeavors by citing the number of publications I used for reference."

The impatient exasperation in Molly's eyes answered that for him.

Reshuffle the script yet again…

"And the total number of hours invested in fact-checking, cross-referencing, and in-depth analysis… also unnecessary?"

"Yes, Sherlock," sighed Molly.

This was not good. Sherlock was being forced to axe the better half of his preamble, which he was counting on to cushion things. He'd taken great care to string together the perfect lines, just so, that were guaranteed to put Molly at ease and prepare her for… his request. Yet she was tossing that all out the window.

He couldn't let that happen. Molly needed a gradual, gently sloping ascent to the summit.

But try telling _her_ that.

"Look," she leaned forward insistently. "I told you my day was exhausting. I barely have the energy to walk to dinner, much less sit here and wait half a lifetime to hear of the _massive_ breakthrough you've had."

The situation was rapidly slipping from his hands. He needed to reel it back in, regain control. Otherwise…

"Molly, if I don't provide sufficient explanation beforehand –"

"If you don't tell me in the next ten seconds, I'm leaving."

"Please," urgency crept into his voice. "This can't be rushed. My intention is not to belabor this, but you must trust that –"

Molly was scooting her chair back. Anchoring her purse strap over her shoulder with a weary sigh. Was she bluffing? Surely she wouldn't actually stand, nor be so cruel as to take a few steps toward the curtain…

Except she did.

Her back was turned now, eye contact lost…

In flash, he was on his feet as well.

"For the sake of all humanity, I must ask you to consider procreating with me!"

So much for the script.


	7. An Offer that can't be Refused

**HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

* * *

 **Chapter 7 – An Offer that can't be Refused**

" _For the sake of all humanity, I must ask you to consider procreating with me!"_

It sounded like the punchline of a joke, and so Molly reacted as one might expect: with hysterical laughter. She folded in half, gasping for air, leaning against the doorframe for support. Each time she seemed ready to recover, along came the tremors and she was lost again.

Throughout it all, Sherlock was impassive as stone. Eventually this would pass.

"Oh… Sherlock, that was… that's got to be the funniest thing I've heard in years!" gasped Molly, finally catching her breath.

Still he waited, saying nothing. Not a muscle in his body moved.

Inhaling deeply, Molly straightened herself. "And they say Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a sense of humor! Well, I think we both know the truth, and…"

She glanced up and caught his expression.

"… you're… not… joking."

His jaw clenched and unclenched several times while the two of them stared at each other, unblinking. It was a twisted game of chicken, waiting to see who would break the awkward tension first. As far as Sherlock was concerned, it was Molly's turn. He'd pitched the ball and now she needed to return it.

The flush in her cheeks was slowly draining with each passing second. Her mouth opened partway, then closed. Her eyes widened, then focused on unseen terrors in the distance.

"I sincerely hope you're willing to explain yourself," she said in a dry whisper.

"Now you understand why it took 'half a lifetime' to build up to this," Sherlock replied haughtily. "An apology would be considered good form, but in this context it just seems trite."

Did he want her apology or not? Either way, she was too shaken to do much but listen at this point.

"Won't you sit back down?"

"I'll stand, thanks."

"Molly…" he was about to launch into something but then stopped. "You'll need to cancel your dinner plans for tonight."

She stared dumbly at him.

"Right now," Sherlock clarified.

With leaden fingers she fumbled through her purse, suddenly forgetting her phone's passcode. Her brain denied ever having knowledge of those four digits.

"Two two one two," Sherlock took pity on her.

Too grateful to demand how he knew the code, Molly hastily entered it and raced to open her contact list. It sounded like someone else speaking when she told "Joe" she felt unwell and needed to reschedule. A trembling hand ended the call and lowered the phone from her ear.

"Who's Joe?"

"That is none of your…" Molly almost laughed again. "You're not allowed to ask any more questions until I get some serious answers!"

"He didn't seem terribly disappointed at being blown off."

"And you're definitely not allowed to keep stalling! We're so far beyond that, it isn't funny!"

Tapping his fingers on the table, Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Where would you like to begin? Since you summarily dismissed my research – which was, for the record, a time-consuming venture that involved soiled diapers and obstetric diagrams that cannot be unseen –that leaves us with socio-ethical factors. Are you willing to hear those, or would that too waste your precious time?"

Time was something Molly had suddenly stopped budgeting.

She shook her head. "No… that's fine."

"Excellent. Now, as I stated earlier, the shortage of consulting work has given me time to examine certain scenarios." Sherlock laced his hands together. It felt good to regain the upper hand; he picked up the script midway and ran with it.

"Tell me Molly, do you know of anyone who, by reproducing, might seriously endanger the world at large?"

She thought a moment. "There was a girl in high school who was the meanest, nastiest witch. I heard she got married last year, and I dread the day she has children."

"Of that I have no doubt. But let's try to focus on _mutual_ acquaintances, shall we?"

"I don't understand."

" _Think_ , Molly. Who do we both know possesses egomaniacal traits that, if replicated, would end up devastating the entire planet?"

Molly didn't have to think long. There was only one person whom Sherlock ever used such potent language to describe, but…

"But he's in prison!" she exclaimed.

"You know perfectly well that's only temporary."

"But didn't Mycroft take care of it?" Molly insisted, her voice rising an octave.

"Molly, I realize this topic may cause you consternation due to your personal dalliance with Moriarty, but that's no excuse to forego reason," Sherlock tried to be patient. "And given Moriarty's slippery track record, we have every _reason_ to believe it's only a matter of time before he tires of prison life and goes looking for fun in all the wrong places."

Molly's throat was suddenly parched. Staring dumbly at the glass of water she'd left on the table, she walked toward it like a moth to a flame and sat down again. Sherlock was pleased to see her yielding to logic despite her obvious discomfort with the topic.

"So you see, Moriarty is the impetus for my recent line of thinking. If he were to unfairly shift the balance of power by producing offspring – or, indeed, if he has already done so – my efforts may prove inadequate." He locked his gaze with Molly's. "That scenario is unacceptable, due to its catastrophic nature _and_ the fact that is foreseeable."

Sherlock stared harder, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Molly," he lowered his voice, "Never have I allowed a foreseeable threat to proceed unchallenged."

She glanced down at her water, earnestly wishing it was alcoholic. But then, would that really help? Discussing the fate of humanity – and her role within that fate – was probably best done with lucid brain cells, not intoxicated ones.

Swallowing the water in a single gulp, Molly pinched her eyes shut, willing herself to focus.

"Can't you just… I don't know what the politically correct term is, but while he's still in prison, you know… sterilize him…?"

"Government-mandated sterilizations are performed in barbaric third-world countries, not Britain," Sherlock sounded mildly repulsed. "Besides, it may already be too late. Those oats could have been sown anytime before his incarceration."

A delightful thought. Molly squirmed in her seat.

"I know what you're going to ask next," he continued. "Have I considered the legal adoption process? Of course I have. But I am not a middle-aged couple seeking a child for sentimental reasons, nor to ensure I don't end up in some wretched retirement home when I'm eighty. I have much more at stake – far too much to rely on environment alone."

"Yes, far too much," mumbled Molly, who was staring intently at a water spot on the table.

"Then there's the surrogate option to consider, but that's a rather time-consuming ordeal, and time is not something we can assume we have much of."

"No, not much at all…" Molly murmured to herself.

"Especially considering the odds of finding a woman whose intellectual profile meets my standards. It could take years, possibly decades."

"Decades…"

"Even if I did somehow find a compatible woman, her tolerance for my personality and mannerisms would not be guaranteed."

"She'd have to be a saint… a MENSA saint…"

"So I face the unique challenge of finding a sufficiently intelligent woman who won't offset my genes too much…"

"Heaven forbid…"

"… _and_ with whom I have an established, civil rapport. I have calculated those combined odds at 10.5 billion to one."

"Good luck with that…"

"Molly."

She broke from her trance, startled.

"Aside from your lapse in judgment with dating Moriarty, you have demonstrated sufficient intelligence to qualify."

"Me."

"Yes."

Molly looked as though she were trying to determine whether or not he was human. But then, if she were honest, this wasn't the first time she'd ever wondered that.

He'd started with the punch line, recited the joke, and then delivered the punch line again. Yet for all his logic, Sherlock may as well have been a pink elephant walking down the middle of Baker Street. Or better yet, a dinosaur. A T-Rex with feathers, two heads, and Amelia Earhart riding on its back.

Sherlock Holmes wanted a _child_.

With her.

To save the world.

Was that all? She'd just pencil it into next week's schedule, right in-between a haircut and having afternoon tea with her mother.

"The courtesy of your reply would be appreciated," Sherlock shifted in his seat.

"My reply? As if all I have to do is check Yes or No on an RSVP card and mail it back?"

He shrugged. "Those _are_ the choices."

"Really. What happens if I say no?"

The faintest smirk tugged on Sherlock's mouth. "I am confident, given your intelligence, moral compass, and how you acted at Mary Watson's baby shower, that you will not."

"What do mean, how I acted?"

"Nothing," he deferred. "This isn't about the shower. It's about whether or not you will be my accomplice in securing the world's long-term safety."

Only Sherlock Holmes could describe procreation in such austere terms. It was a talent, really. He was right – he knew Molly's moral fiber too well to think she'd reject his proposition. On moral grounds, anyway. Interpersonal and emotional grounds, on the other hand…

"You hate children," Molly countered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hate is such an overused word these days."

"Fine, you _detest_ them, cringe around them, barely tolerate them. Is that better?"

"It's more complex than that. I detest their glorified status-symbol position within society. I cringe when their parents permit egregious behavior. I barely tolerate their tantrums and irrational requests. But do you see the silver lining of it all, Molly?"

"I'm afraid not," she laughed dryly.

"Challenge. Adversarial engagement. Seemingly unsolvable situations!" his eyes twinkled slightly. "Think of it, the daily opportunity to mold a future mastermind while simultaneously honing my own skills! I daresay I'd never be bored again, at least not for eighteen years."

Only Sherlock Holmes could have a gleam in his eye while explaining how his child would be a pseudo-opponent.

"You appear unconvinced," he noted reprovingly.

Molly let out a winded, exasperated laugh. The room was starting to spin – and it was becoming difficult to look at him with a straight face – so she lowered her head into her hands and focused on breathing in… and out…

She was more level-headed than this. She spent each day dissecting corpses and weighing organs without flinching, for goodness' sake. She had nerves of steel. Yet those same nerves were bailing on her now. And to be honest, it wasn't the first time. She seemed to recall it happening on a handful of other occasions, all of which coincidentally involved the man sitting across from her.

Denying it after all this time seemed childish and pointless. She was, after all, in love with him, hopelessly and unrequitedly. But she'd learned to sublimate those feelings long ago. Her heart may be foolish, but her head certainly wasn't. She was much too sensible to pine over anything she never stood a chance of obtaining.

Or did she?

Molly pressed her eyelids shut as tightly as she could. In order to see things objectively, she had to think of this as a postmortem examination. Study the facts, analyze the evidence, and arrive at a conclusion.

Fact one: she was convinced that Sherlock's request was genuine and not intended as some cruel, demented joke. Well, mostly convinced, anyway. One could never fully assess Sherlock with total confidence – it only worked the other way around.

Fact two: the prospect of Moriarty procreating was no less chilling to her than it was to Sherlock.

Fact three: she'd be lying if she said she never dreamed about exacting revenge on him somehow. They say the best revenge is living well, but perhaps it was joining forces – euphemistically speaking – with the arch-rival of your arch-rival.

Fact four: he'd chosen her. Out of all the women in the world, _her_. What woman in her right mind would consider rejecting him? Sure, some might not be keen on raising a high-functioning sociopath's children who would likely exhibit traits of Asperger's. But that was their loss. Sherlock Holmes had chosen her, and despite his astonishing directness and lack of romance, this was an honor she'd do well not to dismiss.

Fact five: and this fact would never, ever, as long as she lived, be spoken aloud: she'd fantasized about this day. Not a dingy café that was in violation of public health codes, no, but this conversation – this vulnerable plea issued by the world's most stolid figure.

Molly knew she was infusing far more romantic sensibility into this than Sherlock. She knew he'd basically chosen her out of convenience, though not in so many words. She knew she was essentially a vessel for propagating his DNA as well as his ego.

But she also knew _him_. And so she knew that, in all honesty, this was the best she could ever hope – or expect – from him. Others might scoff at Sherlock's calculated approach, with each element carefully measured as if into graduated cylinders at the lab. He was, in essence, presenting a thesis, positing his argument and citing the bibliography. Academically thorough and professional through and through.

Exactly as it should be, given the source. Anything else would have been sacrilege.

There were, of course, some finer details that required discussion. After all, what was a thesis defense without fielding a few challenges from the audience?

Time enough for that later, she supposed. Right now all Sherlock needed was a simple yes or no, a red or green light before proceeding to the next module. Well, maybe not a green light… more like a yellow one. A _cautious_ "yes."

He'd been more than patient waiting for her to lift her weary, spinning head and speak. There he sat, piercing blue eyes watching her like God himself. She met his gaze with bemusement.

"I have one question."

"Indeed?"

"How did you know my phone's passcode?"

He sighed, relenting. "221 plus the number 2, for the letter B, second letter of the alphabet."

Nodding, Molly planted an elbow casually on the table and rested her chin. "Then you already know my answer, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

 _Those not already familiar with my work should, by now (hopefully), be adjusting to my love of cliffhangers. If not, give it time. Give it time. :)_


	8. Coming to Terms

_Sweet mercy, it's been almost a full year since I last updated... in my defense, certain developments in Spring 2016 kind of threw me for a loop. See my FF profile for an update! :D_

* * *

 **Chapter 8 – Coming to Terms**

" _How did you know my phone's passcode?"_

" _221 plus the number 2, for the letter B, second letter of the alphabet."_

" _Then you already know my answer, Mr. Holmes."_

* * *

" _Milo!_ " Sherlock shouted toward the kitchen. "Crackers and a bowl of artichoke dip, _now!_ "

The two of them sat fidgeting and like middle-schoolers until the food arrived. When it did, Sherlock pushed the tray closer to Molly.

"Here. You're probably ravenous, forgoing your dinner plans for all this. Exhausting."

She took a few bites. "I haven't dozed off yet, have I?"

"No. Quite the opposite."

She chewed some more. "I'm sure I won't need all this. Aren't you hungry?"

Wheezing out a laugh, he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's amazing how delivering certain propositions can suppress one's appetite."

Truthfully, Sherlock's stomach wasn't ambivalent. It was slowly, agonizingly unwinding itself like a twenty-foot phone cord that had been twirled around a finger for years. The last time he'd experienced digestive pangs like this was at the Watsons' baby shower, thanks to a mountain of jelly beans and cupcakes.

But this was one ache that couldn't be cured with antacid tablets. Nor did he want to. The tingling in his spine, the gut-wrenching thrill of it all… it wasn't dissimilar from any other high-octane case. Yes, this felt unequivocally right. This was exactly what he'd needed all along to catapult him from his work slump.

Yet still he marveled at how it had actually _worked._

Better not to question good fortune – nor get ahead of himself. There remained much to discuss if he and Molly were to successfully proceed. Her initial acceptance was but a seed planted in an old yogurt cup, resting precariously on Sherlock's kitchen windowsill, requiring just the right amount of water. Time to sprinkle the first few drops.

"Are you certain you want to do this?"

"Are _you?_ " she countered, raising an eyebrow.

"I researched and initiated this entire endeavor, so yes, it's safe to say I am."

"All right," Molly chewed thoughtfully. "Am I the only one who knows about this?"

Sherlock paled. "Yes! Yes, of course. You do understand, it must remain secret for a very, _very_ long time."

"That's fine," she shrugged. "I've spent my entire life being overlooked by others. It shouldn't be terribly difficult to keep that going."

"I admire your nonchalance, but we really should cover the full ramifications," he drew a measured breath. "First, there are to be no social media posts. No 'bump' photographs, those horrid things, and absolutely no references to the child of any kind, written or otherwise. You must prepare yourself to present a credible, public façade of childlessness."

Molly nodded soberly. Nine months of hiding beneath oversized lab coats. She wagered she could live with that. It was a small price to pay considering the payoff, and that she'd already resigned herself to a childless existence – up until tonight, anyway. To think this day had started out so ordinarily, with her biggest concern what to wear on her date with Joe. And now…

Now the room was starting to tilt on its axis again...

She kept lapsing between periods of calm lucidity and crippling panic. Was she dreaming? Was Sherlock inebriated? Was John hiding somewhere filming this, laughing as he imagined posting the footage on his blog tomorrow? Why couldn't she hold onto sanity for more than a few minutes at a time?

"Molly, you're as white as a sheet," Sherlock noted with concern. "Just breathe in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. Here, let's try together. Breathe in…" his chest rose, "…and out," air whistled through his lips as he nodded encouragingly, then repeated a few times. "There, better now?"

Inhaling once more, Molly nodded, blinking. "I think so."

"Out of curiosity, what exactly caused that terror episode?"

Couldn't he just somehow read the answer in the wrinkles of her shirt, or something? Why make her say it?

"I'm worried about my _life_ , Sherlock. What kind of life will this be for me? For us?"

"Ah," he said knowingly. "A common fear among those contemplating parenthood – but usually a brief one. For most people, having children is little more than a checklist item. They're doing the world no particularly great favor by reproducing. But our lives will stand in stark contrast, Molly. What kind of life awaits us? A remarkable one! A life of greatness! You and I will finish our days on this earth knowing we contributed more to humanity's welfare than anyone in modern history. You need not fear any sleepless nights worrying about your purpose."

Good heavens, there was that ego, healthy and unapologetic as ever! Molly had to admit, his charisma was infectious. But he'd completely misread her meaning.

"I wasn't talking about an _existential_ crisis! What about the everyday 'keeping-it-a-secret' thing? Who will drop the baby off at daycare and who'll pick them up? Whose flat will it stay at during the week? We need to figure out the logistics or we'll be totally buggered!"

There was that word again – logistics:

" _Mycroft, think of what you're advising! A child? The logistics of that… seriously, Mycroft! Your logic may be arguably sound, but your grasp on reality is anything but!"_

" _I'm not interested in a_ pot calling the kettle black _session," Mycroft yawned. "You asked for my help and received it. I'm confident you of all people can engineer the_ logistics _, as you put it."_

Typical Mycroft, throwing about all sorts of challenges but never willing to lift a finger to execute them. Fine, so be it. Sherlock certainly hadn't made a career and reputation by not grasping a few logistics here and there.

"Very well. I will arrange the daycare transactions through a variety of personnel, occasionally involving my homeless network."

"Your _what?!_ "

"Relax, Molly. I entrusted them with my life last year. If they can assist in orchestrating my death, they can certainly handle carrying an infant from point A to point B."

"There's no one else we could call upon?" Molly begged.

"Well…"

Sherlock's hesitation betrayed him. Molly crossed her arms defiantly, awaiting his response.

"I suppose…"

"Yes? Who did you have in mind? The garbage man?"

He shot her a suffering look. "It's just that I _may_ have overstated the secrecy level before."

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft."

"Your brother knows?"

"He has an inkling of my plans, but ONLY that I'm considering the prospect of offspring. He doesn't know by… um… what method, or with whom."

"Oh." Molly's brow pinched a little. She supposed she could live with that, although she didn't know Mycroft quite well enough to say how this would play out long-term. He _was_ Sherlock's brother, after all. The only person on earth who could match Sherlock's wits and antagonize him without consequences. Having him as an uncle to Sherlock's child might add an interesting angle to their sibling rivalry. And by _interesting_ , Molly really meant _uncontrollable_.

"In any event, I can call upon Mycroft's minions to run the occasional errand for us," Sherlock declared. "Will that suffice to offset the homeless factor?"

"I guess it will have to."

"On to the matter of the child's primary residence, then. My initial thoughts are that the most efficient locale for the first year of life would be your flat – assuming we both agree that breastfeeding is the unequivocal choice for neurological and oral structure development –"

"We do," she interjected quickly.

"– while accommodating my need to influence the child on a daily basis, and not exempting weekends. I have calculated a minimum of four hours per day to adequately observe and interact with the child. These four hours need not be consecutive. The child's sleeping and feeding schedules would not be uninterrupted."

That was somewhat of a relief. Molly had secretly feared he'd put the baby through sleep / wake cycle testing or some other awful experiment, like potty training them at three months. Well, she couldn't entirely rule that one out yet…

Molly's mind was racing miles ahead. "That all sounds fine. But have you thought about vaccines? Or solid foods? I'm sure you'll want a say in their diet. You've got to have an opinion about which vegetables are best for motor skills, eyesight, and literally everything else!"

"I sincerely doubt most parents micro-manage every facet of their child's life before it's born, much less before it's conceived," Sherlock replied, the slightest smirk on his lips. "We'll have plenty of time for minutiae. Right now we need to focus on macro issues, such as maintaining secrecy, wearing shapeless clothing, that sort of thing."

"And I can agree to all that if we can work out the micro issues, say, before I'm in the delivery room!"

" _Do_ give me some credit, Molly."

"Oh, don't give me that tone! I've talked to Mrs. Hudson. She told me everything," Molly pursed her lips. "Does causing a sewer backup with paper towel ring any bells?"

"I ran out of regular tissue!" scoffed Sherlock. "It happens to everyone!"

"Mrs. Hudson said the crew found a week's worth of paper towel in the pipes. I can see one emergency, but a _week?_ You couldn't be bothered to buy one measly roll of toilet tissue in an entire week?"

When he returned to Baker Street that evening, Sherlock was going to have a lengthy talk with Mrs. Hudson over tea.

Sherlock attempted to adjust his posture higher to retain some dignity. "We're digressing. Toilet tissue and infant care are not the same thing."

"Oh, but they're frighteningly similar! Have you ever changed a diaper?"

"Yes, several! If you don't believe me, just ask John and Mary."

Oh, right. He'd mentioned earlier that soiled diapers were part of his "research." Molly had been in too much of a daze at the time for it to register.

"While we're on the subject of diapers, I should add that the child's daily necessities will not be your financial burden. I'll have Mycroft issue you a card with no spending limit."

 _Sort of like a corporate expense card_ , she mused. Or, since it was coming from "the British government," more like the ultimate public assistance program.

"Will he go shopping for me too?" asked Molly, half-joking.

Sherlock grimaced. "Molly, you saw what he and I bought for Adeline Watson. Do you really want Mycroft – or any representative of his – making purchases on your behalf?"

Point taken. Molly tried to smile politely, but then her shoulders shook with laughter. Soon both of them were laughing breathlessly at the thought of Mycroft standing clueless in the middle of the diaper aisle, loading one box of every size into his cart, and depositing them all at Baker Street for Mrs. Hudson to sort through.

As their fiendish grins softened, a gaze passed between Sherlock and Molly. In a moment lasting exactly 1.25 seconds, each of them was something _more_ to the other. Molly wasn't just a woman agreeing to be Sherlock's accomplice in a sociopolitical master plan. Sherlock was no longer the sociopathic, unattainable genius for whom Molly had abandoned all hope of emotional intimacy. It flashed as quickly and as bright as lightning, but it happened.

Each blinked as if blinded by a camera flash.

Molly found her voice first. "So… the logistics…"

"Yes!" replied Sherlock hastily. "Yes, the logistics. Are we in agreement?"

"I… I imagine we are. But it is going to require quite a bit of communication."

"Indeed."

"You're prepared for that? Twenty-four-seven, around the clock? Baby's got a fever at two in the morning and I'm out of infant Tylenol?"

"That's what texts are for," Sherlock shrugged.

Molly studied him, gauging his sincerity for what felt like the hundredth time. Anyone who didn't know him might mistake his matter-of-fact attitude for apathy. But she knew better. For Sherlock Holmes to be this assured about anything meant he'd examined it and found it to be as natural a choice as breathing.

Now if she could just muster half the confidence he had, they'd be in business.

No matter how calm and rational Sherlock presented the situation as, Molly perceived it as fraught with complications. There were drawbacks and silver linings in equal share.

Having Sherlock's child would fulfill a primal desire, but it would never be understood or reciprocated. The financial support was something every girl dreamed of, yet without the emotional comfort of a partner residing under the same roof. She'd experience all the tender moments and satisfaction that came from motherhood, but there would be no weekends spent at grandma & grandpa's. Friends and relatives were liabilities, not to be invited for birthday parties or play dates. Besides, those events would only distract from Sherlock's mastermind training sessions anyway.

Oh, how infinitely easier this would all be if they were an official couple. Yet Sherlock had no designs for anything beyond a well-drafted business arrangement. Colleagues collaborating on a "project" for eighteen years and then shaking hands when it was over. Molly's flat just happened to be their office – or lab, if you will.

Very well. If it was a business arrangement, she'd just have to evaluate it like any other job offer, which ultimately came down to whether the benefits are worth the hours and responsibilities. Anyone with sense knew that.

How many times had she reassessed her current job and reluctantly decided that staying at St. Bart's was worth it? And wasn't Sherlock proposing something far more intriguing and rewarding than performing postmortems and cleaning the centrifuge?

It was done, then. No more vacillating or questioning. She'd said yes (or rather, implied it) initially, and she was a woman of her word. Time to freefall to her destiny, just as Sherlock did from St. Bart's rooftop all that time ago.

It felt right. She felt calm, finally. Genuinely calm, not just induced by plummeting blood pressure earlier.

For now, there remained just one last piece of logistics. "I suppose you've already chosen the fertility center?" she asked politely.

Sherlock's facial muscles froze. "Pardon…?"

"For the procedure. I'm curious, will it be artificial insemination or traditional IVF?"

He blinked once, but the rest of him was utterly paralyzed.

"Not that it matters," Molly hedged, seeing his obvious discomfort. "I just thought I'd ask, you know, in case it makes a difference when–"

"Neither."

He'd barely spoken above a whisper, and yet Sherlock had managed to interrupt her as succinctly as if shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Did… I hear you…"

"Molly, I… I offer my sincerest apologies," Sherlock inhaled through his teeth. "It's clear you agreed to this arrangement under an erroneous assumption, and for that I am truly, truly sorry. Please believe that it was never my intent to mislead you or give the impression that–"

Molly's eyes were twice the size of the moon. "We're not… using a lab?"

Sherlock simply stared at her, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Just when Molly had thought it safe to trust her senses, there went her blood pressure again, straight through the floor.

"The costs are exorbitant, for one, and there's the increased risk of multiple implantations, and I'm only prepared for one child, not six," Sherlock hastily explained. "You are in excellent health, menstruating regularly, with no reason to believe that standard techniques won't yield results in six months or less, and studies have shown…"

The rest of Sherlock's words faded into oblivion. Molly was transfixed by the term _standard techniques_. She knew full well what was considered "standard" when it came to conceiving a child.

 _Let me get this straight_ , Molly shut her eyes. _Sherlock wants a child for his own moral gratification, which means I carry it for nine months, go through labor, keep it a secret for the next eighteen years… all without any emotional attachment whatsoever to its father? Explain to me how that's humane, considering the method of conception he has in mind?_

 _I don't think so._

The job benefits-to-responsibilities ratio just tipped in the wrong direction. She opened her mouth to say so, but something struck her just then. What happens if a job offer is less than ideal?

Negotiation. That's what happens.

And if the employer wants the interviewee badly enough, it's amazing the kind of deal that can be cut.

"So you've decided that's in our best interest? 'Standard techniques?'" she replied.

"As I just explained, yes."

"Hm," nodded Molly. "I have an idea that's also in our best interest. Especially yours, if you want this to happen."

The understated sass in Molly's tone made Sherlock uneasy. "Do tell."

Planting her elbows on the table and leaning forward intently, Molly locked eyes on his, as effective as holding him by the throat.

"Marriage," she enunciated with perfect clarity. "Take it or leave it."


End file.
